Ringbearer- the Epic story of the Heir of Mordor
by Neohtan the Wise
Summary: The War of the Ring left Mordor in ruin, yet the story of the Fellowship Occupation and the ensuing struggle for Independence remains untold... until now. Tolkien wrote the official version of the War of the Ring, now hear the Truth, and it is a truth that will rock the very foundation of what you supposedly know about Middle Earth.
1. Prolouge

_Dear Readers, _

_I present to you the story of the Heir of Mordor, an AU that takes place 16 years after the war of the Ring. It was designed to show the "true" story of Middle Earth, a story that somehow made it past the grasping hands of the Fellowship Censors. Therefore, for all of ye pure-hearted Tolkein fans out there, I must warn you that it does contain different descriptions of races, locations, people, and characters in general, as well as a few non-purposeful errors in canon that I'm sure you'll be happy to point out to me later on. Please be warned that I have changed canon liberally throughout the story. After all, Tolkein did use official sources and history is always written by the victors._

_ I do not presume to own Lord of the Rings or any of Tolkein's work, and this isn't for any sort of profit, so there's no excuse for anyone to sue me. As always, my greatest request (repeated throughout the story, but, then again, author's notes are practically designed to be annoying), is that, good or bad, you write reviews for my stories, this one included. Eventually, I'm trying to publish something, so it's both in my interest and yours (my writing improves... so does your enjoyment of the story...) for you to give me much needed advise. _

_And with that, happy reading!_

_- Neohtan the Wise._

* * *

**Prologue:**

It was a watchful night for the maid who swept the portico. Of course, she also answered the door, cleaned the master's laundry, and weeded the front garden, but there was no need for answer the door in these troubled times and the garden was groomed half to death already.

Yes, she thought, a very watchful night to say the least, for in North-East Mordor, there was no such thing as the law, and many a Master, far greater than hers, had been slaughtered on the roads by marauding bands of orcs or deserters, malcontents with the Great Eye's wars.

Andrei of Sarabad, she thought, you are an exceedingly stupid man. After all, what sort of idiot would attempt to maintain a country estate in these times? "Family tradition" he'd said, "anger the gods" he'd said. Well, stupidity couldn't be that much of a curse as the maid received good enough wages and good enough board. Still though, there was hardly reason to stay. It was only a matter of time before the Elven Conquerors descended, and those who associated themselves with the old order were not likely to survive.

Suddenly, there was a series of sharp thuds on the road outside, hoof beats, if the old maid wasn't mistaken, and urgent ones too. She hurried to the door, a cleaver from the kitchens gripped in her determined right hand.

Tenitively, she slid open the spy hole on the door, and gasped at her astonishment.

Outside was a black rider, the folds of his billowing cloak concealing his face and features, shrouding him in mystery. He rode a jet black stallion, and beneath that cloak of power could be glimpsed the polished sheen of interlocking steel scales. On his right hip, he wore a long sword, deathly sharp, and in his arms, there sat a package.

No matter how much the old maid prayed against it, the rider dismounted, his armor clinking with every step, his head bowed low.

The old maid instantly threw open the door and prostrated herself on the ground, nearly kissing it from her desire to bow lower and bury herself under the cobbles.

Suddenly, the rider threw off his hood, and the old maid gave a shudder of alarm.

"My Lord… I…"

"Madame, I am in a hurry, take this package and…" the rider seemed to search for words, "don't lose it."

The old maid suddenly hardened. She tore herself to her feet, gripping the cleaver in one hand, and the doorbell's pulley in the other.

"If you make one move to hurt me, I shall alert the household!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the rider said calmly, giving a strangely wiry half-smile, "You know who I am."

"Oh I know more than enough of _who _you are, sir, and _what _you have done. You have brought nothing but desolation and death to this land!" she spat, making the sign against evil engrained at birth in all fervent housewives.

The rider looked pained, his expression somewhere between gut-wrenching sorrow, and tearful regret, "I know I am not in a position to order you, and I know of the ills of our Empire. I also know that in a few days' time I will probably be dead and you will not have to put up with my presence save to spit at my disembodied head in Morgoth square. I know all these things, which is why I come to you." Gingerly, and with infinite care he reached out and placed the package at the Maid's feet.

Her jaw dropped. She nearly swooned from distress. She attempted to make a reply but nothing came out, all she could do was stare at the rider in black, so mysterious yet known so well.

He remounted his horse, adjusting his sword belt for the long rider ahead.

"Madame," he said one more time, "please."

And the maid could not but stare as the rider in black cantered away beneath the dim moonlight, before bundling up the package, and carrying it inside.

For it was not a package at all, but a baby in swaddling clothes.


	2. Chapter 1

**1**

Coming up the long, dusty road past the even dryer and dustier bushes was a single traveler. He sat hunched in the saddle on a horse more apt for pulling a plow than carrying a rider, and his wide-brimmed hat nested lazily on his shaded face, doing its job with the least amount of effort possible. At the traveler's waist was a well-worn belt, and a hand-me-down sword, probably dull, that flapped against the tired old nag's side with every step of its uneven gait. Everything about the figure sitting astride the horse spoke of a long journey through far too much dust and heat. Every square inch of him was covered in it. It was stuffed in his wilting boots, clung to his shirt, crowded around his shadowed face and embedded itself in his shaggy hair, hair that had laws of its own. A leather pack, worn-out and bruised, bumped against the horses flanks, improperly secured so that the beast grunted in annoyance with every hard jerk on the saddle. The figure seemed not to notice, and occasionally a flash of white was seen under the enshrouding brim of his hat as he rolled his eyes at yet another noise his horse had made.

Gazing, or more like casually drinking in, from under that hat the figure saw the same landscape he'd been staring at for the last eight hours of plodding. There was a dusty road, a few forlorn fenceposts, maybe a barn or two with a silo or a windmill spending their time dreaming of a farm that actually had a purpose in life. Sprawling out on either side of the potholed pike were spiked hedgerows, leaves slowly dying from the hot, dry air of summertime, thorns too small to see but too large to warrant firewood, unless the fire-starter wanted half a dozen angry welts to contend with before the night was over. The sun beat down on the deserted landscape, causing the rider to slouch even more in his saddle and comprehend something to drink. Something without dust.

It had been a dry year, as always, made dryer still by the unending heat and the tax collectors that ravaged the countryside in their constant search for riches. The land was nothing but a shriveled wasteland, a piece of parchment aged too long, a tree stranded in a desert for so many ages that it had forgotten what water was, let alone how to drink it. For sixteen long years the land had gone without a single nurturing puff of ash from the fiery mount doom, the ash that seeded the ground and grew the plants, the ash the drove the wind and the rains and, above all things, kept the dust down.

The Magistrates said it was a blessing, the sign of the end of the Dark Days that the people didn't have to weather a week of sitting inside, choking on black, swirling clouds of ash. But that didn't matter. Without the clouds, there was no soil. Without the soil, there were no crops no matter how much rain the gods deigned to throw at the bare ground. And without crops, there was no food. And without food…

The rider reclaimed his thoughts. It wasn't exactly as if he was actually old enough to have _seen _an eruption of the great mountain, though in his childhood he had been teased as some sort of curse, for being born in the very year that the ash stopped coming. The rider smiled at that. "The harbingers of death" they'd call him, and all boys born the year the Dark Lords fell. But that was before, when Old Matilda would let him out into the village with the peasant boys.

There was a slight disturbance in the prickly hedgerows as two more figures immerged. The rider felt for them, crawling around in those bushes for more than an instant would require a suit of mail, a suit they obviously didn't possess. One of them cursed, shaking a bleeding hand at the other. Both held muskets, long and menacing, matches lit and drawn back so they wouldn't touch the powder, but could do so at an instant.

"Awright, hold it right there." One of the two figures chewed. Of course he chewed those words, and considering that even he himself couldn't understand them, he then decided to spit out the tobacco he'd been trying to process.

The rider groaned and sat up in the saddle, giving his horse's halter a slight yank to get the stupid thing to stop. However, this was not, in fact, the signal for a stop. Considering that the rider was right-handed and that his left hand was rather slow to respond to his command, he'd jerked harder on the right side of the reins, so his horse was actually receiving a rather urgent message to turn right.

The nag plodded to the right. Nothing about that horse was urgent.

"I told you to stop," the man on the road said, his tone slightly more menacing. He was strong of build, with concealed muscles bulging beneath a heavy leather vest, pure torture during the hot summer day. He cradled his musket and burning matchlock like a baby, leaning slightly to the left side of his hulking form. His boots seemed new, far too expensive for someone of his ilk, and as the rider watched his mouth continue to chew absent –mindedly on thin air, he felt a pang of fear run up his backside.

"Sorry about that I was just… oh bugger," the rider muttered wrenching the horse's head back towards the front direction. The beast seemed to short-circuit for a moment, gave a prolonged fart and finally hobbled itself back on course. The rider sighed once more. It seemed that every time he turned his head to look at, say, a particularly gnarled tree, the horse decided it was time to turn around and run into that tree.

"Excuse me?" the hulking man said, taking a step closer. His companion had now forgotten about fumbling around on the side of the road and pulled himself closer, leveling his matchlock at the rider. This one was thinner, lanky, a man of all bones and nothing else. Whose limbs seemed to move on their own accord, and who fumbled with his weapon like it was made of nails.

"Just… the horse… that's all, they have a mind of their own." The rider replied, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously.

"Is that so…?" the hulking man said, making a slight motion with his weapon.

"Yes, course they do, only way they could… you know, walk and things…" The rider knew he was rambling. It happened often. When he forgot to pay his debts, for instance.

"Shut up!" The big man thundered, catching the rider off guard, "Now I want you to get off the horse, slowly… that's it, easy does it." The rider complied, stepping off the nag as slowly as he possibly could without killing himself.

He put his hands in the air, sighing as he waited for the moment when he would be picked clean. These men were probably just farmers, who after years of bad harvests and bad taxes had decided that it was better to relieve travelers of their possessions than to starve in the dirt.

"Search 'im Grimes," the big man called to his little companion.

The diminutive man sneered as he poked and prodded, rummaging about through the saddle bags, all the while, munching on an apple the rider had saved for later that day.

"So!" The big man proclaimed, striding up and down across the roadway like a lawyer ready to suck the debt out of a tax-dodging client, his matchlock held over his shoulder like a militiaman on guard. "Wot do we 'ave here?"

"A… farmer, don't you think. Spike?" the little man squeaked, infecting that rare, perfectly red apple with his raggedly shorn yellow teeth.

"No, to well fed for that, and who in these days owns a horse, even a nag like that, everyone I know's sold them off to pay the levy taxes. No… gotta be someone from the city then, someone _worth _somefing."

The rider grimaced under his floppy hat. Where would a farmer get _guns _anyway? They were rare enough as of yet. His father had purchased one recently, straight out of the forges of Isengard, though only the gods new why. They were noisy, inaccurate, and tended to blow up in the user's face at surprisingly regular intervals. And, unless someone was a particular friend of the White Wizard or bought in bulk, they were ludicrously expensive.

"Take off the hat." The big man commanded.

"What?" the rider dared reply.

"Oi said, _take off the hat." _This time, there was no protest and the rider swept off his hat immediately.

"Wot d'you think we'll do, Spike, boil'im in oil!? No, course not, he's worth moren' that, you always knew Spike, you always knew! We's gonna get rich!" The little man cackled manically.

But Spike didn't seem to answer. He was, rather creepily, it seemed, staring at the rider, "No," he said, his lips seeming to move on their own accord, "Let him go."

"Let 'im go!?" the little man screeched, "Wot are you mad!? I thought we agreed on this!"

Suddenly, Spike turned on the little man, his hulking form nearly blocking out the sun, his matchlock prodding his companion's chest menacingly, "Who gives the orders around here, _me… _or _you." _

"Y-you spike, always y-you," the little man stuttered, before slinking away into the bushes, his matchlock making a strangely hollow wooden sound as it bashed against the tangles of thorns. The big man, acting as if in a trance, didn't even notice the barbs.

* * *

"Alethorn! It is you!" A rough voice exclaimed across the creaking planks of the local bar.

"How could I ever miss this place?" the rider, Alethorn, called back.

"I can name a few reasons," the rough voice chuckeled.

"Always good to see you, Stendarr," Alethorn said, trotting over to the "bar", rather a large plank seated on a couple of well-worn barrels, a grin the size of a dwarve's beard stitched to his road-weary face.

"And you too, lad. Looks like you've had a rough journey," Stendarr said, pouring a mug of the Green Giant's Best Ale.

"I was robbed," Alethorn admitted.

"Hard not to be in these days. Should've carried more than that pitiful excuse for a blade," the big orc sniffed, glancing down at the chipped and rusted sword stuck in Alethorn's belt.

"Cheapest in Morgoth square… late at night, wanted to get home…"

"Wanted to commit suicide, that is," Stendarr inhaled again, and his unfortunate companion felt the monumental tug of a man whose nostril's rivaled the largest fire-drake's maw for size.

"It's good to be home."

"Speaking of which," the massively muscled bartender commented, "have you been to see your father yet?"

"First thing on my list," Alethorn lied, taking a swig of the truly excellent brew, "doorman said he was away though, hunting deer or somewhat something."

The great suck of air rose again, sending little ripples scurrying for cover within the half-drained pint. Alethorn could swear that every dust mite in deserted interior of the Green Giant Inn and Alehouse had just broken at least one limb.

"Come on Alex, me lad! Andrei doesn't hunt anymore! Besides, there's no game to be found within a hundred miles these days," the tavern keeper sighed, releasing the thousands of unfortunate critters from their painful suspension, "He really wants to see you."

"Uh-huh," Alex said, his voice low.

"It was a misunderstanding, Alex. He meant nothing by it, just…"

"I don't want to talk about it." Suddenly, there was a chill. Alex whipped around, searching for the source of the draft, but there was nothing to be found. It was in the mid-90's out, unbearably hot, so why would he be feeling cold?

"And that's your last one!" Stendarr bellowed. Alex stared, wide-eyed, at the figure seated in the corner of the room. It was unbelievable. Even with patchwork job of thatching that left threads of roof dangling down into the interior and the murky light created by an innkeeper who didn't dare to light a fire on such a sweltering day, the man must've been bloody invisible to be that unseen. It was like he'd sank into the shadows. It was like… it was like…

"I had no idea this was a dry town," the shadow spoke, the words rising from the his dark cocoon and floating up to the rafters, where they seemed to explode into a hundred tiny fragments and reverberate with a strange eco that could in no way be created by one man's low whisper.

Stendarr threw up his massive paws, flustered. There was obviously no moving this man.

"W-who are you?" Alex stuttered, the shiver creeping down from his neck across his spine, wracking his whole body with slight convulsions.

"I am a man who has his secrets, Alethorn of Sarabad, though Alethorn Garadvas would be more appropriate, as you are no more _of _this place than I am."

Alex gaped, his jaw seemingly unwilling to scrape itself off the floor. There was a flash of white from the depths of shadows, and Alex took it as the creature, whatever it was, smiling.

"How do you…" Alex started.

"Know your name? Lucky guess, I suppose," another flash of light. It must've been terribly amused.

"Awright, mate, that's enough of you, clear out, you've had it for today," Stendarr said, still obviously shaken.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," the creature said, its silken tongue slithering its way to its intended targets, "I do feel a bit… tipsy…" Another sly grin crept across the canvas of darkness.

With that, it stood, the shadows rolling back into their rightful place behind him- yes, it was a he, a man-shaped creature wreathed in a heavy cloak that seemed to pick up a trickling breeze unknown to the living. Its face was obscured, save for the occasional bright flash when it found something funny, and another two pinpricks of white that seemed to be its eyes.

"Been meaning the fix that door," Stendarr commented at the last fell creak of the man's departure, his voice far too loud for the surrounding company, his vocal cords seeming to have a bit of a shiver.

"Right," Alex said, shoving the thought of the man in black out of his mind with a final parting shudder.


	3. Chapter 2

**2**

She'd always loved the cool, bookish smell of the Royal library. It wasn't just a place for her, but a living creature. With each step on the thickly-set fur carpet or marble tiles, the entire cavernous space seemed to breath, like the dragon Smaug itself resettling to a more comfortable position amongst it's hordes of gold. But the treasure in here wasn't coin, it was books, thousands upon thousands of books, many of them scrolls or clay tablets written millennia ago in an alien language, though those were more often than not in the Royal Archives, safely behind three dozen layers of Dwarven-forged lock and key.

But still, Eofeld mused, there was plenty to explore, what with the great cavern itself branching off into hundreds of smaller bisecting tunnels, many of the older one's sadly waterlogged, burrowed deep into the mountain. But it wasn't for pleasure or simply the thrill of exploration that she found her way down into the depths this day. Every word of the nearly indecipherable Elven transcript she held in her trembling hands were wracked with tears. She was bleeding.

_Keep your mind calm, Eofeld, you've seen worse, _she thought, breathing hard to ride over another great swell of tears. A shield maiden of Rohan doesn't sob, a part of her, engrained from the first day she'd mounted Nelafeil, her stallion, told her, a shield maiden acts.

_But I'm not a Shield maiden any longer, _she thought, the bitter taste of that memory scouring a breach through her reconciliation. Daventel was a red-blooded lad, they'd told her, but he'll calm as he grew up, at least that's what her father had said. No, it wasn't as if she'd expected to marry for love, those usually turned out worse for both the couple and their families than those unions made by even the most inept matchmaker. But Daventel, Prince of Gondor, son Aragorn? There was the stench of evil.

She shuddered, a weary smile spreading across her bruised and bloodied face. Evil. Daven. She sighed. Though he had an affinity for expensive sparring matches, Daventel Ellesar was no warrior, and their fights had always been mutual. Well, one-sided in the instigation, two-sided in the damage. Taming wild Roharrim Stallions did have its upsides.

_There we go Eorie, _she thought, _a couple of smacks from that bastard can't break you. _Ah, she mused, the pressure of producing an heir, what a motivation for a boy with no taste for women. She let out a tight, cynical laugh. Damn the fine dresses and expensive jewelry, when was the last time she'd ridden a horse?

Another sigh escaped. It wasn't so much for the scrolls themselves that brought her to the library, but rather the sheer enormity of the place. Miles upon miles of seemingly Claustrophic caverns, endless passages to simply wander, alone. Away from Daven. She wasn't even sure the High Archivist knew of these tunnels.

"Imhrail Belethor, you are the most idiotic writer I've ever heard of," she muttered, setting down the rolled-up parchment carefully so that it didn't touch the lapping pools of standing water that now saturated the lower part of her oh-so-bloody-expensive gown, the front part of which was tenderly held closed by her battered hand. _Delicate womanish fingers my ass, _she thought.

She picked herself up off the sodden ground, cracking her bruised knuckles gingerly; _bastard really did a number this time, godsdamned Master Landovis. _The tunnel in which she now stood was one of the oldest, stretching deep into half-cleaved mountain of Minas Tirith. The ground was soaked in a layer of standing water six inches deep, easily ruining the precious scrolls on the bottom shelves. No one besides her had visited this place for a hundred years, let alone bothered to take care of it. The place was pitch-black, but in her right hand, Eofeld carried a gently-rotating orb of light. It apparently "concentrated weak fragments of light" from an area and then refracted them visibly. All the vendor had had to say was that it was great for enclosed spaces before she'd grabbed a dozen of them.

Suddenly, she whipped around, the hem of her dress pooling up ripples in the frigid, brackish brew swirling around her feet. _What was that? _She thought, peering dimly into the gloom. The light-orb was great for illuminating scrolls, but beyond its ten foot or so range, everything seemed even darker than before.

"Probably my own bloody dress," she cursed, sneering in disgust. It was so quiet down in the caverns that even the slightest rustle of a sound seemed like the roar of a great dragon.

There it was again! She turned, more careful now, the sound seeming to come from farther down the tunnel, farther than she'd ever explored. The orb held gingerly above her bobbing head, she crept forward down the tunnel. The sound seemed to magnify in response, turning from what could've been the scurry of cavern roaches to a great booming echo that bombarded the sense from all sides. Eofeld spun hopelessly. The sound seemed to reverberate from the walls, bashing up against her confused body, beating down on her, coming for her, readying now, ready to strike the final…

And stopping. Utter silence. More so than before, if that was possible. Not even the slightest drip of moisture dared show itself in the face of such terrifying stillness. It had enveloped the cramped atmosphere of the enclosed tunnel, crushing all resistance before its utter lifelessness. Eofeld felt a chill creep up her spine, not from the inherent cavern damp, but from something else. Something darker that lurked amongst the rows of rotting shelves.

She started, a small yelp slipping embarrassingly free from her tightly-clamped lips. There, down towards the end of the tunnel, was a light. She frowned, taking a step backwards. A search party? The lower caverns were strictly forbidden to all inhabitants, except perhaps the Chief Archivist himself, who spent more time with his wine and whoring than with his job. So no, no one would care if she'd slipped down here on the guard's off-shift. So who would it be then? Daven? Did he know of her clandestine outings? Was he here to bare his brawn, assert his dominance over her once and for all with his guards? She took another fearful step backwards, the memory of her husband's cruelty seared into her mind from the day they'd met.

_Seventeen years old and I'm cowering in corners like a door maid who thinks she's cursed, _Eofeld spat, rubbing the her cracked and bloody hands on her soiled dress, _what has he done to me? _

No, Daven, wouldn't care where Eofeld went after he'd had his way with her. But then what could the light be? An adventurous Archivist coming back up from a journey through the tunnels? Possible, but Eofeld knew all the librarians enough to figure that none of them would voluntarily take a waterlogged plunge into the unmapped menaces of the Lower Holds.

Her mind suddenly hit a dilemma. Some primal instinct, just beyond the reach of conscious thought, told her to be afraid. To turn tale and run as fast as her legs could possibly take her all the way back up the excruciating loops of passages to the Royal Palace. But strangely, she wasn't afraid. It was a light, that's all. An inexplicable light, true, but only superstitious idiots were afraid of something simply because it was unknown. Maybe she'd discovered something down there, some sort of glowing subterranean beetle, or a natural source of glow-orbs, damn the scamming bastards who'd sold them to her in the first place. But whatever it was, that curious something, overriding instantly the something that told her to run, grabbed control of her legs and urged her forward, careful to step on the drier spots as to remain silent.

But the light only flickered out of view, reappearing instantly about a hundred yards down the passage. Curiosity driving her on, she approached faster, only to be met with the same results, the light flickering away more speedily now, as if it could sense her presence better, drawing her along corners, through tight spots, around bends, but always down. Always, in the end, down.

She began to jog as the lights disappeared faster, desperate to keep up with the thing she'd followed so far. What the hell could it possibly be? She thought, some sort of spirit?

Before long, she was running full tilt, sprinting after the ever-allusive ball, slavering and panting in her addictive quest to get at it. She was totally lost now, her halo of orb-light only illuminating the flickering shimmer ahead and the ground beneath her, her focused eyes passing right over any intersections or turns she'd taken.

Suddenly, the walls disappeared. She blinked, shaking her head side to side, her chest heaving and her heart pounding from the unexpected exertion. The light was gone, and it hadn't reemerged, seemingly swallowed up by the all-inclusive shadows of what must've been an enormous chamber.

"I'm an idiot," she gasped, her hands on her hips. She was totally lost beneath the ground, with only a single orb-light and no food, stuck at a depth no one had ever traversed within… gods only knew how long.

Then suddenly, the light drew itself back into view, congealing together to form a single hollow ring of golden luminescence.

"Well that's helpful," She muttered, her breathing still a little ragged.

Then suddenly, her light went out.


	4. Chapter 3

**3**

While Orcish women were not exactly of the comely type, the maid standing before Alethorn Garadvas was downright ugly. As if all of those Orcish ladies had been smashed together in one gigantic lump and then pulverized into shape by a meat tenderizer with an anger management disorder. But to Alex, she was more than just the servant who swept the portico; she was the mother he'd never had.

"Alethorn!" the maid exclaimed, rushing down the manor's front staircase with wide-open arms, the gates of the fortified house flung wide to receive the son returned.

Alex grinned despite himself. _The son returned. Gods, I really have been exposed to too much of Master Orlotan's lectures. _

"I'm home," He said, receiving her welcoming hug with a homesickness borne of a too-long journey through the midsummer dust.

"Great Theodred but you look starved! Just look at you, you're practically dying of the heat! Come in, come in, we can't keep you waiting out here!"

"Matilda, please, I'm fine," Alex said, going through the carefully prepared unconscious ritual of denying a mother's hospitality.

"Oh come now," Matilda frowned, the wrinkled creases of her face melding into longer lines of twinkling laughter, "there's no such thing as a homecoming without one of my pies to cheer you up!"

Alex rolled his eyes affectionately as she bustled up the newly-expanded front entryway into the marble-clad foyer, designed to "reflect wealth but not obscenity" as his father, Andrei Garadvas, had put it.

The house, in itself, was a spacious country manor, overseeing a good-sized nobleman's plot of 4,000 acres and three-dozen peasant families. Alex's father was not the owner, of course, as he was originally a Yeoman out of Morgoth, but rather a privileged tenant. Lord Harlaus was permanently away, living the good life in Minas Tirith, too busy to worry about his rain-starved Mordorian lands, and preferring the steady income of renting to an ambitious freeman who could set things straight. The manor had thus been transformed from a ransacked ruin in a war-torn country, to a mildly prosperous estate when Andrei Garadvas, the boldest of the bold, had diverted water from the nearby Serengard River to irrigate the farms, only at the expense of not having enough pressure to power the now-useless saw-mill. In these dry and desolate days, there were no trees worth cutting anyway.

Despite the anti-bandit fortifications and the lazy patrolling of his father's five bodyguards, Alex couldn't help but feel a certain sense of unease upon entering what should've been the safest place on Middle-Earth for him. The last time father and son had met; they had parted in anger, who knew how the ferociously-tempered Andrei of Sarabad would react?

"You're fathers in the dining hall, dear, he's eager to see you," Matilda said, her speech full of blissful enthusiasm but her eyes telling a different tale of cautious hope. _He's cooled off since before, _Alex read; _maybe it'll be better this time. _

_I better hope so, _he though, steeling himself for an encounter with all that pent-up unease. Couldn't he at least take his boots off first; maybe have a piece of that pie he was smelling?

No, better to get it over with. So he took a deep breath as Matilda led him down the long entrance hallway to the gaping-wide doors of the Great Hall. A Dragon's maw ready to swallow him up.

At the end of the empty dining table, his elongated fingers tapping casually on the gold-tipped boss of his walking stick, stood Andrei Garadvas, his perpetual investigative frown plastered irrevocably to his face. He was a stark man, with greying hair and a protruding jaw that radiated authority. At his waist hung a stubborn paunch that despite his active lifestyle refused to be removed. In fact, he'd been grooming it to "portray prosperity but not laziness" and as always, "wealth without obscenity." _Bloody poker face, _Alex thought, _I'm you're son for Theored's sake, can't you let out at least a little emotion? _

Suddenly, as if a Wizard had snapped his commanding fingers, that stony face broke into a broad smile, "Alex," Andrei's deep, throaty voice called, "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you to, father," Alex replied, shifting uncomfortably around the edge of the table, his gaze resting anywhere but his father's eyes. He stared up around the room, taking in the scenery of a moderately-sized Lord's hall, constructed of solidly-placed stone bricks with a timber-framed ceiling, two great trestle dining tables stretching across its length to the Lord's table, which was raised on a dais, at the base of which Andrei stood, his back to that big old wall-to-wall tapestry depicting the battle of Pellenor fields.

"Please, my boy, please. No need for this insufferable formality. I get enough of that at the League meetings." The incessant tapping on the cane stopped, leaving the room sweating profusely under the heavy hand of an oppressive silence.

"I was a fool," Alex admitted. Though admitted could hardly be the word for it. Nor could lied, spat, or any other emotion known to man. He was, actually, quite unsure what emotion to label this particular problem with, only that whatever one he chose would be false. Alicia was out of his life now. They had fought enough in the end for him to forget the good days…ish

"Agreed, but smart lads like you do not remain fools for long," To Alex's relief, his father smiled broadly this time, the expression finally touching his normally cold eyes, "Come here, my boy," the old man said.

Alex now smiled too; rushing towards his father's outstretched arms. _I was a fool, _he thought, _falling for a peasant girl who'd hate me in the end. But even the most infamous tempers cool after a while. _

So it was with long-awaited peace that Alethorn Garadvas slept that night.

* * *

"Does he know?" the voice rasped, its incongruous sound rolling across the shadowed figure's hearing.

"Not yet, but it's obvious enough."

"Hopefully you're better at hiding things than I think you are."

The shadow grinned, of all people, the elf had possibly the strangest sense of humor he'd ever come across. Or was that really a joke? He could never be sure. It sounded kind of like a veiled threat. Then again, it could easily be both.

"I am an artist," the shadow replied, the grin still flickering across the dark palette of blackness under his enshrouding hood.

"You'd better be more than the idiot I think you are, because if you fail…"

"Doomsday, I know. How touching. The Lad's been waiting for this since he was born. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Good. I'd rather be saluting a King than mourning a farm boy."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

** Dear Readers, **

** First off, I'd like to thank you for reading the first four chapters of Ringbearer (etc.). More chapters are on their way! But enough of that. I still need to get to the REAL point of writing this note. **

** This story is a fun side project while I'm writing an Epic Fantasy Novel that I hope will one day project me into the prestigious ranks of Those Who've Published. I mainly write for fun, but I'm still desperate for feedback, so whether you love this story or hate it, WRITE A REVIEW FOR THEODRED'S SAKE! **

** Thanks' for listening to my rant. Even a tip of "you know, this was good when…" or "have you ever heard of a Thesaurus!?" can help improve my writing (and thus the future chapters that I hope you're interested enough to be reading). **

** Happy Reading! **

** -Neohtan the Wise (professional slayer of demons, dragons, and overly aggressive trolls- if anybody asks). **

**P.S: I'm a little shaky on my Middle Earth Mythology. Does anybody know what religion Tolkien originally wrote in? I've obviously kicked-off a great deal of Polytheism, but if you've got any authentic details, I'd be happy to add them in. **


	5. Chapter 4

**4**

Darkness. Utter, complete blackness that smothered all things in its icy embrace. The golden light had faded out barely thirty seconds after showing itself. There were no walls, no reference points, not even the faintest trickle of the visible radiance that guided travelers through even the blackest of nights. This was pitch black, and the only sense of direction Eofeld had were how many times she tripped over protruding rocks.

"I hate my life," she muttered, cursing as her bruised legs found themselves tangling with a stubborn hunk of granite that quite plainly thought that its millennia-long resting place was bloody comfortable. Her string of newly-formed curses rang out across the seemingly endless chamber as she went down yet again, blundering around in the dark like a helpless imbecile. Well, not _like _a helpless imbecile.

"Feeling lost?" a voice slithered. Now, it's obvious that voices can't slither, but this particular sound hadn't behaved like any others. It didn't walk up politely and tap on Eofeld's eardrums to create noise, or even barge in so the inward canals hurt like hell, but rather planted itself in the inner core of her very mind, found some nerves, and began playing them like a badly-tuned Elvish harpsichord.

Quite frankly, she didn't even have the nerve to scream.

"No? Because the last time I checked the door was _that _way," the voice sneered. The harpsichord player had obviously had too much to drink.

"W-who… are you?" Eofeld finally breathed, her heartbeat beginning to quicken. She crouched closer to the ground on instinct, as if it would save her from an enemy who was everywhere and yet nowhere.

"I'm someone who doesn't like questions," the voice seemed to chuckle, the whispered notes rolling across the fragmented soundboards of Eofeld's metaphorical harpsichord so that they echoed and replayed in different keys, rising and falling, rising and falling.

"Oh… sorry," she said, backing up towards the nearest boulder, eyes wild as she scanned the wall of darkness.

"No," the invisible musician breathed, "don't be. Manners aren't exactly at the forefront of one's mind when you're stuck a mile beneath any recognizable surface, wouldn't you agree? By the way, this cavern is one of the largest ever recorded by man, well, disregarding Erebor of course, but you get the point."

Eofeld did, in fact, get the point. Very, very clearly. She could wander for miles through the forlorn hills of underground blackness, and still never come near a wall. She'd probably been going the wrong way the whole time.

"Then I take it you have a bit of a problem," the voice continued, its rasping melody sending shivers down Eofeld's spine.

She nodded, not sure how to respond, still cowering next to the rock. _Stand up, for the Valar's sake. You're a Rider of Rohan, well, for all practical purposes anyway. Face you're foe. _

But that was the problem. There was no one to face, just a wall of impenetrable invisibility. _It could conceal anything, _she thought, her mind racing. Who knew what beings dwelt beneath these mountains?

"Goblins? Cave Trolls? _Spiders?" _There was a harsh cackle that reverberated about the great space, but sounded within her own mental instrument as well, making Eofeld hold her head in her hands, her entire skull buzzing with electric pain.

"You know," the voice continued, "I'd never taken you for one to be afraid of Spiders but… as I've always said, size does matter."

Suddenly, there was a great thunderous roar from within the depths. The chill stemming from Eofeld's back suddenly multiplied, her body ridged, her breathing harsh, wild eyes darting about the murky depths like a rabbit in search of the inevitable fox.

"Illusion? Magic Trick? Hard to be sure," the voice cackled, the thudding sounds of a menacing eight-legged trot drawing closer.

_I'm hallucinating, _she thought, her head covered in her chest, _just a dream, maybe I hit my head on a rock or something, maybe…_

The warm wafting of an unknown gust shattered all illusions of hallucination. _Please let me be dreaming, _Eofeld prayed, _oh great Valar above please let this be a dream! _

She turned, slowly at first, her eyes blinking rapid- fire, willing herself to wake up from her subterranean horror. But this was no product of her imagination. Looming in front of her, blasts of putrid breath streaming from its six nostrils, stood a spider. Nearly ten feet tall, it's great hairy legs wrapped around a massive boulder that dwarfed the cowering figure shadowed by it, it's bulging abdomen held high above the hind legs, manipeled mouth slurping with carnivorous delight, it was poised to strike at a moment's notice.

"Now that we're on more… suitable terms, we can get down to business," the voice said. Eofeld was frozen, mouth forced wide, a silent scream stuck somewhere down her throat, her ridged limbs malfunctioning between running like mad, and collapsing right then and there.

"There's really no need to fear me, little princess," her unseen attacker said, the spider slowly dissolving into a swirling cloud of obsidian dust, spiraling out into the hulking blackness, where once again a golden pinprick of light was visible.

"I…" Eofeld choked, shutting her gaping mouth and jerking her limbs into a more comfortable position.

"That's it," the voice said, "relax, I have a proposition for you." A smile seemed to curve up from the shadows, the golden light drawing closer, so that she could make it out to be the piercing reflection of a single eye.

"I… I need to…" She stuttered, taking a forced step backwards.

"Please, don't speak, you're obviously quite distressed." Around the pinprick, a visible form began to show. It was that of a slender humanoid, a leather trench coat wrapped around its tall body, its face shrouded in what seemed to be a mask and hood, the only distinguishable point being the glowing eye of gold.

Eofeld spat, an almost automatic gesture, the established sign against evil back home in Rohan. She'd had enough of shadows and illusions. First the light, then, presumably, the spider. And what the hell was this!? "You think!?" she said, the sarcastic comment somehow comforting against the oppressive fear.

"Quick on the uptake, aren't we?" the approaching figure said, "Here, I suppose you'd like some light." From its outstretched palm shot a net of sparkling webs, glowing white against the stark background, perfectly illuminating Eofeld and her companion, but still shrouding the rest of her surroundings in darkness.

The light now drew completely about the figure, showing that he, if it was, in all logic and based off its build, a he, was indeed wearing an expensive double-breasted trench coat of the finest dark leather that extended all that way down to his knees where it met a pair of equally fine cavener's boots. Around the head, a leather hood was pulled down low to bathe the strange character's features in shadow, a dark mask of some sort drawn across his face, obscuring all but the ever-present eye. One hand, if there was a hand attached to the end of the creature's arm, was stuck in its pocket, the other arm held out, a small, slightly curved dagger blade protruding from its elongated sleeves.

The figure took a step forward and the light seemed to recede about it, the darkness pouring in through the protective glowing net so that it safely shrouded the figure once more, only its outline, the eye, and the faint steel glow of the dagger being visible.

"W-who…" Eofeld cleared her throat, a step outside the ring of light impossible, "Who are you?" she finally said, more forceful this time.

"My Name is Morgoth," the creature replied solemnly.

"What?" Eofeld asked, "Like the city?"

"No," Morgoth said, a wisp of a smile appearing somehow on top of the dark mask, "more like the person they named the city after."

"You mean…" she proceeded, the fear rising inside her once more, "the _god?" _

Another quick grin from the cloaked figure, "In a sense."

_Am I going mad? _Eofeld thought, _visions of heretical gods? Tomorrow I'll probably wake up screaming prophesies from my bedside. _

Then, the menacing question surfaced, _if there is a tomorrow. _

"I see you have a bit of a… problem." It breathed, the sound no longer rumbling about inside of her head, but rather emanating from where the creature's mouth should have been.

Eofeld gave a quick look around, "I agree," she said, her eyebrow raised in a noblewomen's favorite expression.

"Ah, rather touching," it replied, "but I was talking about a bigger issue. I, of course, can get you to the surface, but you could probably find a way out on your own, given the necessary time and hardship," it paused, the dagger disappearing into its pocket, "I'm talking about Daven."

"You want me to kill him!?" She exclaimed, the shocked expression almost coming out as a laugh.

"No, no," the figure smiled, "you mistake me; though I'm not entirely sure you'd object if I did. I was simply making a statement. I've heard things aren't exactly happy," he pointed, "up top."

Eofeld's head hung; the memories of the beatings and the brutality etched into her very core. Daven was a monster in the form of a man even more so than this hideous example.

"I see. I can't blame you for coming down here. I only wish to help you," it said, taking a quick step closer, "I can get rid of him."

"For what?" she laughed, a strange thought flitting across her mind, "for _you?" _

The creature laughed, or what sounded approximately like a human equivalent of a laugh when spoken with those alien lips, "I'm hardly in the state for romantic activity," it said, the grin flashing once more.

Her eyes hardened; the subject suddenly serious. Delusional or not, there was a hope. Even the cautioning thoughts that bombarded her mind could not break through her fiery hate for the tyrant of her living hell. But even that hatred had its weaknesses, "will you hurt him?" She whispered; the fine line of fear and hope too delicate for anything more than the softest of utterances.

"Not unless you ask me too," Morgoth said.

"How do you know?" she asked, "do you really have the reach of the gods?"

"Some might say so. But I have my ways," the eye flashed a quick moment of blissful remembrance, and she almost felt a pang of sympathy for this poor creature, suffering from some unknown ailment that it would skulk beneath the Earth.

She raised her head once more, steeling herself to gaze at it eye to eye, "what will it cost?"

"Always practical, aren't we? Truth be told, I'm not doing this simply out of the kindness of my heart," it paused, fingering the curious dagger.

"What do I have to do?" Eofeld said, committed now, whatever the price.

"Just gather a little information," Morgoth replied, "nothing particularly devious, of course, just a quick jaunt into the Royal archives. You've probably wanted to get in there anyway."

"The Royal Archives!?" She explained.

It laughed, tossing the silvery knife high into the air and catching it, stuffing the whole thing back into its pocket with a casual flick of the wrist. So, hands, then. That was a good sign.

"You sound like I want you to plant a dagger in Aragorn Elessar's backside! Anyway, there's more tax records in there than anything else," it paused, staring not at her eyes but _through _them, "The Chief Archivist's got the key. A little… _persuasion, _and he'll hand it over easily enough. Will you do it?"

She nodded, her heart set, "what am I looking for?"

Morgoth smiled broadly this time, "I knew you'd take the opportunity. It's a prospecting claim, section B, header: Plains of Gorgoroth, you're looking for a scroll dated at the last day of the third age. And no, it's not going to be on the shelf, you'll have to move that via a trip switch on the left-hand side. The shelf'll move for you, and the rest is yours for the taking."

She nodded in affirmative, not caring why, only knowing that to be free of Daven; the job had to be done.

"There's your way out," he pointed towards a column of purplish light suddenly stretching across the length of a winding staircase, "It isn't often when an abused women gets a chance to remove a Royal husband."

She nodded, not surprised this time when her companion disappeared into a swirl of grey-black smoke particles, and not bothering to ask what _remove _meant.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

** Yes, I know trenchcoats didn't exist back in the 1400's. But hey, this is Middle Earth, give me a break. **

** Also: REMEMBER TO WRITE THAT REVIEW! Thank's to the person that answered the religion question, but I'm still short on critique (yes, I know, I might as well be shouting "BUY WAR BONDS!" but what the hell, it's worth a try). **

** P.S. Any specific names of the Valar or are those up to me to decide? **

** Thanks for reading, **

** Neohtan the Wise (slayer of all those various demonic species mentioned in chapter four). **


	6. Chapter 5

**5**

The fires lapped against the enclosing blackness of the starless night encircling the provincial capital of Morrannon-Eiyre. High up in the governor's tower, past the secretary's famously creaky but now even more famously flammable desk, past the now-dead door guards and bursting through the heavy oaken doors that guarded the Peacekeeper's office, the shadow of the Nazgul hung heavy in the air.

The room was empty of all life, three bodies strewn across the white marble floor, their blood pooling together from the clean slices through the arteries in their throats. They bore a mixed expression of shock, rage, and fear, their mis-positioned heads cracked slightly to the side where an all-too-powerful thrust of the fateful dagger had nearly torn them from the victim's necks. They alone bathed in the single beam of moonlight shining over the Northern shore of the great Sea of Nurnen, their last moments splayed out for all to see by the late magistrate's perfectly positioned circular skylight.

"Please… please, I'll do anything," a horrified blubber emerged from the depths of the dark near the untouched right corner of the room.

"Talk fast," the shadow whispered, the deadly blade of its dagger reflecting silver light from its position on the whimpering clerk's throat.

"I…I, well… I…"

"There had better be more to come or you're going to join your companions far less cleanly than I planned," the rough abrasion of the shadow's voice commanded, the dagger pressing hard against the unfortunate clerk's throat.

"Jedvar," the Clerk spluttered, "Jedvar Stenkilsson came by, orders from the High governor, strictly classified… of course, no local or Mordorian authorities to be notified…"

"Good, I like the sound of that, sounds like _information, _keep talking," the shadow whispered, its hot breath barely a centimeter from the petrified adjutant's ear.

"Well… they said it was some sort of threat, not sure what though. Near the town of Sarabad, they said. All I heard next was that Jedvar'd taken his enforcers and a squad of local men-at-arms to check it out…" the clerk leaned back, the stain of embarrassing piss spewing down his leg, his tearful voice radiating fear, "now please, My Lord… I've told you everything I know."

"Then I thank you for your service… but the truth is, I didn't come here for you." The deep, menacing voice exclaimed.

The Clerk now felt a shred of hope blossom against his apparent demise, "Oh thank you, Lord, oh Merciful Angel of the Night! Please," he blubbered, "I can go free, right?"

"Unfortunately," the shadow cleared its throat, a grimace of disdain somehow showing itself within the wall of darkness, "I had specific instructions. Kill the Magistrate, leave no witnesses."

The Clerk gulped, his heart rate tripling.

"And even more unfortunately, you're a witness."

And all that was heard of the clerk from that moment on was a short, muffled scream culminating in the ripping sound of a punch dagger being driven through its victim's lower jaw.

* * *

"The scouts are in, My Lord," Elhokar of Morrannon said, his voice low on orders to be silent, "the village is undefended sire, and there's a strong likelihood the perpetrator is in residence."

"What about this… _heir?" _Lord Jedvar Stenkilsson asked, his voice petulant as he curbed his straying destrier.

"Can't say. We know that both a bartender named Stendarr and a boy called Alethorn Garadvas had a short conversation with the perpetrator in the Green Giant Inn yesterday, before Alethorn returned home to his father, Andrei Garadvas." Elhokar cleared his throat, pushing his chafing helmet farther down onto his face.

"Andrei Garadvas!? The old bastard who's renting Harlaus's estate!?" Jedvar exclaimed, his mutton-induced jowls bouncing with vigor. He raised his hand, halting the ongoing march of the column of sixty men-at arms that were threading their way through the dying forests just a mile and a half north of the village of Sarabad. A faint glow of moonlight shown through the thick branches, catching the silvery reflection of steel plates stamped with the all-powerful emblem of Gondor. At the head of the column, there were three squires carrying the respective standards of Gondor, the Empire of Arnor, and the Principality of Mordor.

"The very same, sir: lives in the old manse at the top of the hill," Elhokar replied, still trying to get that damnable helmet to fit comfortably.

"Any protection?" Jedvar said, wrenching the battle-lusting horse back onto the dirt track, all the while mumbling about over-pricing and 'those Theodred-damned orcs who can't tell a good horse from the ass-end of a warg.'

"Yes, Lord, five bodyguards armed with matchlocks within an enclosed palisade. Not much for our lot but that's where the villagers'll flee and Andrei has a hobby of collecting Old Gondorian weapons."

"Ah," Jedvar said, "Elhokar, take the Gondor and Arnor standards and fifteen men 'round near the manor, I want it sealed off before the fight begins. No fleeing villagers, no shots fired, just a cordon across the road, understand?"

Elohkar gave a slight bow of his head, the stupidly designed infantry half-helm slipping forward across his eyebrows. But, despite his outward actions, inwardly, he was seething. _This great sack of Lard! _His mind shouted, _I know what 'sealed off' means and I know what needs to be done! You would've retired years ago if you'd ever tired of banging Melissa! _

He bowed dutifully once more, kicking his horse off into a trot in the direction of the manor. _Gods curse you, Jedvar Stenkilsson, _he thought, his eyes wreathed in fury, _I never should've joined the peacekeepers. _

But he had, and he martialed his thoughts, the impetuous young man on the frightful destrier transforming into a hardened soldier of Arnor. There was work to be done.

* * *

Alethorn Garadvas woke with a start. His peaceful dream of a celebratory reunion with his father suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. There, at the forefront of his spinning vision, was Matilda, her face a mask of worry.

"Come _on, _lad, up with you!" a harsh voice cursed, the shadowy figure to his right backhanding him into awareness.

"Be careful with him!" Matilda snapped, her voice quavering.

The shadow to his left seemed to ignore her, "Alright, lad, you ready?"

Alex stood, dazed, "umm…."

"Of course he's not ready!" Matilda fussed, shuffling over to Alex's side, "Look at him, he's not even of age!"

"When I brought him to you sixteen years ago, I intended him to be kept safe," the figure said, head bowed, "And through no fault of your own, he's not safe now, so I don't bloody well care if he's ready or not because he has to go or he's going to die, so _move, woman!" _

"Ready for what!?" Alex shouted as he was hustled out of the bedroom door, his wilting shortsword unceremoniously thrust into his arms.

"I'll tell you when you're ready, now _go!" _The shadow then shoved him down towards the front stairway, he and Matilda taking the fall and sprinting out the front doors of the manor into the walled-off gardens.

"This way!" The figure shouted, leading them through a side-gate out into open territory, immediately beginning to sprint full-tilt up the barren hill towards where the old lumber mill used to be, shoving his confused wards in front of him.

And immediately, Alex saw why they were running. Coming down off the ridge towards the sleeping village was a line of horsemen, plate armor picking up rays of moonlight and reflecting the ghostly glow into the eyes of the now-terrified inhabitants. Lances bared, they began to trot, properly aligned knee-to-knee to deliver a devastating charge, a herald towards the rear of the line braying a single, bone-chilling note from the lips of his hunting horn.

"Keep up, you old fool!" the mysterious man yelled, pushing the panting Matilda as they careened towards the deathly embrace of the Aversham woods.

The wood came as a relief as even Alex was gasping with exertion now, and blundering through the threaded barbs of thorns and thistles allowed for a slower pace and therefore a moment or two to catch the breath. The man in the black cloak seemed unfazed, hacking a trail through the thick undergrowth with his newly- drawn hand-and-a-half sword.

Presently, they had reached a patch of dead ground, where the bleached bones of long-starved oaks stood alone where the undergrowth dared not take root. The shadow raised a dark hand, signaling a stop where Matilda crashed to the ground, her wrinkled face red from exaustion. Alex simply stood with his hands on his knees, his eyes radiating confusion.

"Don't get much exercise, do you boy?" the shadow said, giving the sword a quick flip through the air before catching it and slamming it back into its scabbard.

Alex shrugged, sitting himself down on the rain-starved Earth, the inevitable questions of who, what, when, where and why forming on the tip of his tongue.

"Aye," the darkened man spoke, "get some rest while you can. We're out of their line of sight but we'll still have to get moving soon. I'll explain on the way, jus…"

The shadow spun around to the drumming din of approaching hoof beats, a thin line of glistening cavalry picking their way through the forlorn trees.

"Oh, shit," it breathed, "_MOVE!" _

Alex took the call, dragging the poor Matilda into the brush as the horsemen drew their swords, kicking their mounts into a hasty gallop.

"Head to the Weathershorn farm! I'll distract them!" the figure called, the great sword leaping out into action once more, the heavily-cloaked warrior leaping into the air, his blade held high.

"Run, Matilda, run," Alex panted, wrenching the old woman through the tangles of thorns, his pulse hammering, his fear driving him on like a thousand imaginary pinpricks sprouting from his back, heedless of the pain as his raked his body with barbed cuts.

Suddenly, they broke into a field, studded with the short scrub-grass that clung to a living in the blighted climate of Eastern Mordor. Directly ahead lay the flickering lights of the Weathershorn farm, where the old man himself was likely to be present with his hand-me-down crossbow. They had but a few hundred yards to go.

But then, there was flicker of iridescent silver, moonlight shining across the brow of a steel helm, and the ever-present rumble of iron-shod hooves.

"RUN!" Alex shouted, though the cry was unnecessary as the pair were already sprinting towards the dim hope of the cabin.

The knight, who'd been surveying the woods at the time, started, his destrier rearing, and wheeled his mount towards his prey. From his left hand dropped the menacing links of a war-flail, a spiked iron ball swinging casually at the end, enough to crush a victim's skull with a single blow.

Alex, the invisible lance-points spearing him harder, put his head down, pumping his arms and driving his legs into the hard ground, his vision narrowed. _Get to the cabin, _he thought, _run… faster, get to the cabin. Get to the cabin, _the thought hammered its way into his terrified mind, cursing himself for not running faster.

Suddenly, there was a scream. In his haste to flee, he had left Matilda behind, her struggling form silhouetted against the charging figure of the galloping knight. He spun around, his pitiful dagger drawn, gasping for breath.

Only to see the weighted flail come crashing down with a sickening crack of steel splitting bone, blood spewing into the moon-flecked gloom, the old maid tumbling to the ground before skidding to a fatal halt, the gaping wound launching viscera across the great stallion's forelegs.

"NO!" Alex shouted, himself falling to the ground. His eyes rained tears. He screamed, his mother in all but name dragging herself to a pathetic crouch, her mouth dripping blood, her back flooded with it as the armored rider circled.

The man-at-arms raised the flail, swinging it about his head experimentally, maneuvering his mount sideways for the perfect downward chop.

Suddenly, out of the black embrace of the night, a blurred figure shot at the rider, body-slamming him off the horse and rolling neatly onto the field, punching him again and again with the silvery shape of a serrated knife in its right hand, crushing the horseman's neck with inhumanely powerful strokes, smashing the box helmet and splattering blood across the dried-out chaparral.

Alex sprung forward towards the lumped shape of Matilda's scoured corpse, his mouth twitching, sorrow blossoming through his soul. He knelt gingerly beside her inert figure, the tears cascading from his face, her pulverized head in his muddied hands.

Suddenly, a gurgling rasp escaped from her shattered windpipe, clumped-up blood dribbling from her mouth, the pain flashing across her dying eyes.

"You…" she choked, coughing a great stream of bloody material that splattered across Alex's nightshirt.

"No…" he whispered, stroking her, his body wracked with sobs, "no…"

"Listen to me," she rasped, weakly grasping on to the upper sleeve of his nightshirt, pulling him closer.

"No… don't die," he whispered, "please don't die."

"Listen to me," she choked again, the coughed-up bilge simply falling from her mouth now, her smashed backside and neck rising and falling, rising and falling.

"You _can't _die…"

"I'm beyond passing," the whisper replied, her failing hand stroking his hair, a mother's love still present within those near-dead eyes, "but…" another gasp of blood, "but you still live… save us, Alethorn… reforge the ring, bring back the…" she choked on the words, her chest heaving as it fought for air, drowning in her own lungs, "… glory… save us… please…"

"What!?" Alethorn cried, holding her head, his face nearly pressed to hers, "what… I'm… I don't understand… I…"

"Reforge the ring… fulfill you're… destiny…" And then the eyes snapped shut.

"Boy…" the shadow to the left said. Alethorn ignored it, his body sobbing gently, his face buried in the corpse's chest.

"We need to move _now." _It said, the chink of mail obvious as it took a step closer, its foreign hand grasping Alex's collar.

"No…" he whimpered, still clutching her cleaved skull like a baby, the blood drenching him, drowning him.

"I know… I know you have lost," the shadow said, gently turning Alethorn's face to meet his own steady gaze, "but we must leave now, or we'll be buried with her, understand?"

* * *

He nodded, the tears slowing now, the resolve building. He stood, taking one last glance at the body strewn across the haloed ground, fire splayed across the night sky, the screams of the burning village seared into his memory for all eternity to come.

Elhokar de Vardia ground his teeth atop the great and bloodied destrier, his fists clenched irrevocably about the reigns of death. He too remembered the screams, the muffled moaning's as the rapists lined up to defile a weeping village girl, the great pile of bodies dumped unceremoniously in the center of the conflagration, the hordes of drunken horsemen reaping their plunder of a formerly prosperous village, lone amongst the desolation of the Northeast. Oh how he'd seen it all, the fires of that night burning a cavern of hatred deep into his mind, the look on the Andrei of Sarabad's face as he sneered defiantly at the laughing specter of Jedvar son of Stenkil, his hands cuffed behind his ramrod-straight back, his eyes telling of that same hatred burning inside him.

_I will kill that man, _Elhokar thought, his hand clenched around the hilt of his broadsword, _may the Valar help me but I will be the vengeance of these people. _


	7. Chapter 6

**6**

It had been easy, really. She'd simply changed into a low-cut dress, walked right into the Chief Archivist's chambers, said something sexy, and he was practically giving her a tour of the forbidden Royal Records. After that, it was as simple as planting the non-lethal venom-tipped needle Morgoth had left on her bed into the poor bastard's panting neck.

_Dirty Whore, _that same, cautioning side of her spat.

_I didn't actually _do _anything, just coaxed him a little, _she answered, rolling her eyes skyward.

_Still. Almost as bad as you and that demon thing …_

_ Shut up, _she thought.

Then, both sides of the now-vehement disagreement seemed to turn to each other across the metaphorical table, simultaneously saying, _If I have some sort of duel-personality disorder, just kill me now. _

She gritted her teeth as she threaded her way through the gloomy heaps of weathered scrolls, shelves reaching up towards the 150 foot tall cavern ceiling. This already had a filthy reek about it. Sure, she'd thought it was so simple, who really cared about a couple of misplaced claims to a now-deserted patch of dirt in Northern Mordor? But something still bothered her. Why, for instance, did she neglect to ask questions? Was it some sort of fear? Probably, but why then didn't she simply say no?

_Because of Daven, _she thought, _all because of him. _

She paused upon glimpsing the carved reminder of which section she was in. Just as Morgoth had said, there was a loose tile underfoot, and a barely-visible switch protruding from the inside of the shelf… halfway up the looming stacks.

"You have got to be joking," she muttered, setting herself to the task of clambering over the dust-infested scrollwork. An unwelcome bit of exercise, a quick start as the row of shelving rolled sideways, and a satisfying pop of a trapdoor coming loose later and she was home free. Free of the monster that had formerly ruled her life.

She stood, panting, a triumphant smile plastered across her dust-smeared features, her eyes twinkling with the greedy delight of freedom. All she had to do was find her mysterious employer.

"Easy as that, wasn't it?" a voice rumbled. While the Elvish Harpsicord remained silent, she still felt as if her ears were on the way to implosion, the nearly-whispered rasp somehow magnified to be louder than a drunken beggar's cheer on Founder's Day.

Eofeld dutifully held out the sealed roll of parchment, her quarry instantly snatched by a hand appearing from the depths of roiling shadows.

"Expecting a little… more, weren't we? Hoping to dig a little deeper?" the voice resounded, the slim figure of her demonic savior emerging with a faint puff of coiled-up blackness, almost like a cough. It then parted sideways, visible strands of light-repelling gas floating away towards less-resistant parts of the chamber, the invisible cocoon releasing its denizen.

"Truth be told… I didn't think it would be this…"

"Simple?" Morgoth said, the golden glow of his single eye providing the only light within the echoing depths of the deserted archive.

"Well…" Eofeld said, glancing about, "there's just… no one here…"

"Well however little actual effort you've had to put in, you've done me a great service, and I thank you for it," Morgoth the dazzlingly-white smile forming out of the mist surrounding his face. Eofeld took a step back. So it was… _outside _the mask?

"Um…" she said, "you're welcome, I guess…"

"Payment will be delivered whenever you're ready," another grin flashed faster this time, not so much a visible expression of a mouth spreading wide, but rather an image forcing itself into place, something that, if she were to touch it, Eofeld's hand would probably pass right through.

"Thank you," she replied, her head held high.

With that, Morgoth spun on his heels, the long tail of his oddly-styled trench coat whipping behind him, his step the very expression of a clipped march.

"On second thought," he said, turning once more, "how would you like to work for me?"

Eofeld frowned, not sure what to say, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, taking more jobs. This one was easy enough, practically a stroll for you. What do you say?" Morgoth advanced a pace, his companion retreating equally.

Her mind raced. He was drawing her in, that was it. Daven was just the beginning. Soon, she'd be his full-time operative. For what, she couldn't be sure, but if she went any farther, she'd be hooked. All he'd have to do to remove or reward her was jiggle the line.

Then suddenly, another thought sprung into existence, _Daven was only the beginning. _If he could get rid of the bane of her existence for a simply checking out a book at the local library, what would he do for a more… intricate operation? The thought almost made her drool. Freedom, she thought, absolute freedom from Gondor and Rohan and her brother and Daven, Nefeila returned and set to the wild, somewhere out there in the hills near Edoras. A life of breeding horses, the life she'd yearned for since the day she came of age and left that existence behind. A Princess was a pawn to be traded in the incessant political games of Kings, and pawns never, ever, were allowed their owndestiny.

"What'll you give me?" she asked, the cautious, protesting side of her cringing at every word. But by now, she'd learned to ignore the annoying voice that held her back, the voice that so many of her unfortunate predecessors had listened to, and had suffered a life of quiet abuse for it.

"Always practical, aren't we?" Morgoth said, shaking his head, "you'll do nicely…"

"You still haven't answered my question," she repeated, the sound of her voice somehow breaking through her inherent fear of an apparent demon, rather addressing a man who could give her what she wanted, and was holding out. She sighed, opting to give it to him again, "what are you offering?"

Her companion shrugged, raising a single inquisitive eyebrow, "This." With a flick of the wrist, he launched a small, golden object gently spinning into the thickly-stuffed air. It seemed to draw light to it, the feint ripple of eye-catching reflection expanding to a searing radiance that filled the void about them, bathing the two in a sea of molten gold. Eofeld cried out softly, her eyes burning, but yet unable to shut them, for she was in rapture. Her pupils widened, locked on to the slowly rotating ball of luminescence.

Then, the ring dropped fatefully into the palm of Morgoth's outstretched hand, the surrounding light yanked once more into the barely-visible sheen that sparkled along the outer edge. A red flash was visible, circumnavigating the object before disappearing entirely, leaving in its place the etched markings of unrecognizable runes.

"M-mine?" Eofeld whispered; her voice somehow alien to her. But she didn't even register that as all thoughts were shoved out of her head by the all-consuming lust for the Ring.

"Well," Morgoth said, "it's not the real thing of course," the palmed jewel melted into that selfsame obsidian dust, swirling up into oblivion above his head, "but, thanks to you, I now know where the big prize is."

Something seemed to snap, the chamber growing instantly dimmer in an instant, the fixated pupils of Eofeld's eyes suddenly falling out of their reverie. She stumbled backwards, as if she'd just been head-butted by an invisible shockwave, "Is that… _it?" _she whispered, her confused eyes dilating.

"Yes,"Morgoth answered, "the one and only," he grinned, tossing an imaginary version of the Ring up into the air.

"I thought it was destroyed," Eofeld said. There was a feint buzzing towards the back of her mind, though she couldn't quite finger it.

Her companion cocked his head sideways, a thoughtful expression, or a look that she thought could have been contemplative, spreading across his face, "Do you know who I am?" He said, the sound emerging as a hushed whisper, almost as if the thought that had been imprisoned.

Eofeld shrugged.

"I am a man of great importance. Well, not a _man, _so to speak, but that's beside the point," Morgoth sighed, the eye rolling about within its socket, seemingly searching for the right words, "The point is," he finally said, "that I could've simply walked in here rather easily. This was a test, Eofeld, and you passed with flying colors. It's because I've got something to offer you, far more than the simple matter of jockeying the law around to get a divorce. I was worshipped as a god for a reason… because I stuck to the shadows."

Eofeld blinked, not entirely certain what to say to that.

Morgoth sighed, the dagger appearing from his pocket once more, "You just dug up old Frodo Baggins's will, something you're buddies in the Fellowship didn't exactly take a liking too. I'm sure you've heard the official story: went Ringmad after being stabbed by one of the Dark Lord's wraiths, got himself a free passage with the Elvish splinter group that thought they could leave reality for some sort of heaven. Truth is, he never went anywhere near that boat."

"He disappeared?" Eofeld said.

Morgoth grimaced, threading the weapon through his fingers as if he was caressing a baby, or maybe his wife, if he had one, "More like: he was_ disappeared." _

"You mean…"

"Precisely. After the war, the Fellowship decided that they needed to tie up loose ends. And they couldn't exactly arrest Frodo Baggins, the sole destroyer of the Greatest Evil on Middle Earth, now could they?" Another harsh sigh, the eye rotating slightly, "'course not. At least not until someone comes up with the bright idea of quietly handing him over to the High Elves, who were apparently making his travel arrangements. Fun fact: he must've slipped on a banana peel or something because he _never made it out of Rivendell." _

Eofeld gasped despite herself. Frodo wasn't just any old hero, the type the bards sang about where half the details of their mighty quests came out of the bottle they were drinking from. No, the Slayer of the Great Eye was a legend in truth, an unassuming little hobbit with a titanic will, who had unfortunately gone mad towards the end of his life, all because he'd made contact with the Darkness long enough to save the world. And he'd been _murdered? _By the _Fellowship? _

"Is this… is this _true?" _She said, staggering nearly into one of the shelves. She'd grown up with tales of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, who'd fought valiantly to save Middle Earth alongside Gandalf the White, Aragorn Ellesar, Perigrin Took and Meriadoc Brandeybuck… how was this even possible?

"Every word of it," Morgoth said, "the One Ring wasn't destroyed in the Fires of Mount Doom, it was simply split up, scourged so to say. People like myself have been trying to unearth the truth from the very moment Frodo died," he paused, the silent twirling of the ever-present dagger coming to an abrupt halt, "we're not looking _for _the Ring, rather preventing that from happening. The Hobbits made a crucial mistake at the Heights of Gorgorath. They dropped the Ring into the great fire, causing the Mountain to blow it's top one last time, and while the magma split that accursed object into a thousand individual particles, fragments remained, fragments that the Fellowship immediately had a hundred Special Peacekeepers pouncing on. I'm sure of it."

Eofeld blinked, her mind quite literally blown. If this was true then the entire fabric of her existence had just be turned on its head. No, more than that. Flipped upside-down, shoved into a hole and buried alive.

"What was the point, then?" she asked, skeptical, "why'd they even bother to destroy it?"

Morgoth snorted, leaning back against the tottering array of bookshelves, "mainly so the Enemy couldn't get at it, though I suppose it was certainly a boost for recruitment. Truth was, Sauron was the only one who could use it. It was his soul, after all, even though it drew others in like flies to a candle. The Big Bastard himself committed suicide after it was cast aflame, and things only got better for the Free Peoples from there, though the war wasn't over until they took Baradur. So the question is, of course… why _not_?" He shrugged, frowning at the seemingly independent motion of the twirling knife blade, "By all intents and purposes, it should've worked. Sure, he'd still have his heir, but he and anyone unfortunate enough to be within a hundred miles of him should have simply ceased to exist. You've got to remember, when dealing with the Dark Lords; they don't let things like that happen. There's always auxiliary spells. _Always." _

Eofeld's mouth hung open, her shock etched into her features for all to see, "and where the ring goes…"

"So goes the spirit of Sauron," Morgoth said.

Still, the rearward ranting's of her cautious mind grew stronger. She'd heard the name _Morgoth _before. It was supposed to signify hatred, evil, the most evil, in fact, of all things. Morgoth was the heretical deity the Dark Lords had worshipped, for the Valar's sake, _Sauron _had worshipped him. Wherever there was a temple in his name, thousands of innocent children were said to have been sacrificed to quench his bloodlust.

"Ah," the once-again shadowed man opposite her said, her mind somehow skipping the fact that he'd picked up her train of thought as easily as a long-wed couple finish each other's sentences, "the name. Bit of an awkward point, isn't it? Funny that you've never hear of me. Yes, if you must ask, I am him, the genocidal bastard's old tutor. But it's hard to stay loyal when you've been murdered by both sides, isn't it? Now are you with me, or are you _without _me?"

Eofeld sighed, the iron solidity of the term _without _crashing through the slim barriers of her mental resistance. She couldn't live without this job. She couldn't live without… _that. _The mere thought of the addictive beauty of the Ring, the truth that it held, threatened to tear her apart.

Her companion let a sly smirk pass through his detached lips, "Knowledge is power," he said, tossing the gyrating stiletto above his head and snatching it from the air with incredible dexterity.

_Knowledge is power, _she thought, _and power is freedom,_ her mind once more turning to the dreams of an unbridled existence, riding bareback through the vast plains of her homeland, a thought even more compelling than that of the treasured Jewel.

"I'm in," she finally said, the last few dissenting cells holding out in the farthest reaches of her brain uttering a final death cry that rang audibly throughout her skull. She cringed for a moment, recovering with a flawlessly jaunty smile.

"Alright then," Morgoth grinned in return, "I hope you don't get seasick."

* * *

The guard shuddered, his eyes wide, the memory still etched into his very core. He'd never seen anything like it; the gaping maw of the mouth open wide in shock, the wide-eyed stare that could only belong to a soulless wanderer of the night… it brought the stench of evil at the mere thought of such a thing.

He'd first been summoned at the high-pitched wail of a distraught Royal Chamberlain, who could but usher him in to the room where his King lay dying. He still remembered the look of horror on Imrahil of Dol Amroth's face as he lay sprawled upon the heaped-up pillows, physicians and stern-faced conjurers crowding around him, his Royal blood spewing from his mouth in great, choking gasps. There hadn't been a visible wound on him when the crowd of hastily-summoned servants had rushed in to see their Liege spasming on the floor, his ringed hands clasping his throat, his chest gasping for air. They'd immediately heaved him on to the bed, the blood now flying about the room in great globs, the physicians looking to each other with mixed expressions of hopelessness and almighty fear.

And just one and a half fateful minutes after the emergency bells had first been wrung, Imrahil, the Slayer of Many Evils lay dead. They had all wept then, for he had been a great Majesty who had ruled fairly over the city's inhabitants and kept Gondor's taxes low. Tears had welled in the Guard's eyes as the doctors had emerged from the chamber, their heads bowed, their whispered voices uttering the dreaded call for the embalmers, and the order for the Herald's to summon the Alting to elect the new Sovereign.

The guard stared blankly out at the unwitting city that hung in a state of eerie silence only achieved at the first whisperings of dawn. His Majesty had been in the best of health only the day before. Everyone, even the gloomiest of souls had shouted the prediction of his long reign from the rafters.

He shook his head, not even noticing the faint reflection of sunlight off of the malicious sheen of a shrouded golden eye.

* * *

**Author's Note: (CAUTION: Intended for die-hard Tolkein fans who are looking for an explanation, may contain spoilers depending on how well I can word it)**

** Alright, so you obviously want the question answered: why the hell isn't she running away right now? Well the truth is, the Dark Lords have a habit of corrupting people in Middle Earth, and she **_**has **_**heard of him, so it's kind of a mental choice thing. Also, this may not be clear, but the Old Legends are kind of vague. The Silmarillion doesn't exist in Middle Earth: there is no real definitive account of the olden days. People know what they know about Morgoth from Fellowship Propaganda detailing him as Sauron's Evil tutor (more on him in the next chapter). **

** Hope this calmed thine righteous fury. **

** Happy Reading!**

** -Neohtan the Wise**


	8. Chapter 7

**7**

The heat that day was of a different stock than most of its counterparts that plagued Mordor of late, refraining from being openly hostile and instead opting for an approach of a quiet sweating feel, perfectly comfortable except for the slight itch in the back and the armpits where the pools of putrid substance gathered in a vain attempt to cool the exhausted body. Normally, it was a mild annoyance in a dry climate such as this, where a carefully-placed breeze could make all the difference in the world, and a calculated sip of one's wineskin could relieve hours of suffering. But today was anything but normal.

Alethorn Garadvas moaned slightly, his thighs burning from the constant uphill torture brought on by his guide's brutal pace. There was no rest, however short, to lessen the impact of the all-prevailing heat, and no water within a hundred miles that could quench a fugitive's thirst. The tears that had once come streaming down his face were now gone, visible only by the crusted pathways of congealed dead skin they had left in their wake, and the omnipresent aura of despair that hung about the entire situation. Each step was a Herculean effort, each fork in the miles of dizzying switchbacks a home sickening wrench on the heart strings, the silent screams of a loved one lost the only audible sound above the constant droning of the mountain winds.

"For the last time, keep up lad!" cursed the gruff reminder of a plodding hell in front of him.

Alethorn declined to reply, his weary head bowed low, so that only his dust-choked hair was visible.

He started suddenly as a force grasped his upper arm hard, wrenching him close to his tormenter's hard eyes, "Look, kid, they find us, we die, simple as that. And if one or both of us is nothing but a charred pile of ash by the time we make it out of these gods-cursed hills, it'll be a hundred times better than what Jedvar Stenkillsson'll do to fulfill an oath-sworn revenge."

Alex simply stared back, his eyes glazed beyond recognition, drowning even in this arid land in the rivers of blood from and invisible wound.

His companion sighed, piercing grey eyes and a stubbeled face visible now that the hood was cast off, "I'll give it plain and simple to you," he said, the muscles on his forearm bulging as he yanked Alex ever closer, "she's dead, alright? Dead. I've seen people die, kid, many, many people, and I've seen'em die in every horrible way imaginable, and some unthinkable because if you do think of them, you'll never stop, and that's how you go mad, kid. You want to live? You forget about her. Everything, every moment. You forget about your old life and everything you've lost. And you pick your gods-damned feet off the ground and you move fast because your worthless life depends on it. Understand? She's. Fucking. Dead. Okay?"

Alex nodded, finally raising his eyes as the wind deadened, somehow, stopped in its tracks by the weight of the fatal words. His companion was turned already, back to the steady trudge away from the menace to the West, their pursuers only visible by the feint puff of dust drawing ever closer on across the miles of cracked, sunbaked plains.

This was the state in which they traveled, mile upon harrowing mile, the grief struck down upon Alethorn like a lead weight tied around his neck. The mountains passed only grudgingly, scarred canyons and burnt-out glens offering little but the menacing glare of the sun, and the occasional dry rasp of the wind stirring up the tumbleweeds below. Water was scarce as always in the hills, and they nourished themselves on anything they could find, Alex continually bewildered by his companion's apparent gift for producing food, or something closely resembling an edible substance, out of thin air. For days they plodded in silence, and it was only after a third succession of nights that Alethorn realized that he had no more tears left to give.

It was during one of those silent, mournful evenings that the question finally surfaced, wrought fresh from ten hours of ceaseless plodding and choking on the great clouds of dust that plagued the mountains, "Who are you?"

Alex's companion looked up for a moment before letting his eyes drift back down to where the fire should've been if they hadn't been worried about the smoke betraying them to their pursuers.

Alex shifted in position, letting a wisp of a smile show through the gloom for the first time in a week, "besides a man who values his privacy, I mean."

"Ah," he said, still looking down, "you do remember. However; I'm afraid you've asked the wrong question. A more accurate inquiry would be: 'who am I?'"

"As in…"

"To yourself," the figure said, leaning back on the rock he was sitting against, "there has to be some reason why we're here right now." He lifted his hands to the sky as if in prayer, twirling them around the night-blurred vision of a desolate mountain valley, frigid with the icy blasts spewed daily from Hellene's Gap to the North.

"She…" Alex started, a mental barrier thrown up as soon as he attempted to voice the begrieved name, "She said something about a Ring."

The figure frowned deeply; its hands clasped together, its sword seemingly just a tad more unsheathed than it had been only moments before.

"A Ring?" It said.

"She told me to save the Ring… something about destiny, something…"

It swore, punching the ground hard to release a faint plume of dust, "Morgoth…" It, Alex scratched that, forcing himself to think of the man standing before him as a _he, _muttered.

"Who?" Alex asked, perplexed.

"Nothing, kid, nothing at all," the figured sighed, "get some rest, we've got miles to make up tomorrow."

Alex shrugged, lying himself down on the cold, hard ground, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Too soon, however, dawn crept in to stir the dreamers, though what peace could be established by sleep was an uncertain realm these days, every night being haunted by the screaming phantoms of departed shades who clung to existence with their very last claws, imploring him to save them at all costs, begging on their skeletal knees but always being torn away into the black nothingness of death.

Days past, days spent running farther into the hills, following his mysterious guide blindly through the fields of devastation, taking round-about trails and treacherous precipices, all the while climbing deeper into the abyss of the ashen range that marked the border with the wide steppes of Rhun.

It was another several nights past when Alex was rudely awakened by a harsh shove to the shoulder, followed by a slap to the face like that of a rabid Mumakil in mid-rampage.

He sat bolt-upright, spluttering ferociously, his head spinning about the shallow vale in which they were encamped.

"Get up," a voice rasped, an invisible hand dragging him sideways across the scrape-inducing rubble beneath the sheltering embrace of a nearby boulder.

"Wha-?" Alex breathed, his eyes wild.

"Shut up and listen carefully," his guide whispered, his glinting dagger unsheathed and gripped tightly in his bone-white left hand, "They've caught up with us, fifteen men-at-arms from the squad that sacked your manor. I need you to run, but not until I tell you to… you alright?"

Alex nodded slowly, his breath quickening as the dreaded weight of pursuit was cast over him. He blinked into the shadows, only the faint cloaked outline of his companion visible amidst the darkness, his hood once again obscuring his face and limbs from view, so that he became a ghost, a terror of the night, silent but deadly.

"Okay. I'm going to cause a distraction, maybe light things up a little. When things get hot…" a white flash was visible from within the blackness, presumably the invisible menace had grinned, "run for the bushes."

He nodded once more, his arteries rioting as he gasped futile breaths, sweat oddly glistening across his forehead despite the bone-chilling cold.

"And take this," the shadow muttered, tossing him a silvery punch-dagger wrapped in a leather pack, "there's food in there, and a couple of other… useful items," he paused, coughing slightly, "once you get over that ridge, head directly down-river until you get to a small stand of trees in a bowl-shaped valley. From there, look for a tunnel about yeah-high," he motioned to about three feet, "crawl in. I don't care how claustrophobic you are, your life depends on it.…" the figure frowned, scratching his chin, "can you swim?"

Alex shrugged, "sort of…"

"It'll have to do. When you enter the tunnel, there'll be a passage leaning down. Follow it, but keep your hand on the left hand wall. If anything comes up, _always _turn left," the shadow paused, giving Alex an odd clap on the back, a gesture that, in a different light, might have served to be reassuring, "you'll be fine." Then, it stepped backwards, melting into the impenetrable blackness that it wore like a glove, only the faint passage of a soft breeze betraying that it had ever stood underneath the rock.

A short while later, Alex was jolted out of position at the faint clopping of horse's hooves on polished ex-river rocks. A plethora of sounds washed over the hump-backed stone, echoing barely-audible whispers of conversation, barked orders and the slither of steel, a muffled groan as an unknown personage slid wearily from the saddle.

Then suddenly, there was a burst of flame, pluming extravagantly into the night sky, the frantic neighing of horses and curses from the pursuing party sounding as their mounts simultaneously bolted.

And so did Alex, running like he'd never run before, his head down, his arms pumping. He soon crested the ridge; spinning around almost out of habit as he gasped the cold mountain air.

Down in the vale, the Peacekeepers were fighting a battle against nothingness, whacking at bushes with swords, stumbling and tripping over themselves as the scurried into position. A small grass fire had started up, which had immediately taken advantage of the parched brush and spread at an alarming rate, forcing the men-at-arms into an ever-constricting circle.

Alex was forced backwards as a great, booming concussion sounded, audible not only to the ears, but a thumping force inside his chest as well. Off to the left of the now-roaring conflagration a flash rose into the night, a small spark visible amidst the darkness, followed by an earsplitting scream. Alex's jaw dropped, his mind's eye easily conjuring the image of his guide falling upon the poor gunner like an animal, ripping his throat out in bloody chunks as the man gasped and spluttered, slowly drowning in his own gore.

He froze for a moment, the image implanting itself in his brain, urging his legs on to faster feats, sending him tumbling down the sheer slope of the backside of ridge, kicking up a miniature rockslide of debris and loose pebbles on the way. He crash-landed in the thick briars sprouting at the foot of the ridge, rolling onto his feet, his breath ragged, not even pausing before crashing off through the scrub again.

Ahead drew the outline of a near-dry streambed, feeding gently into a mountain pond with less than half of its brackish water left floating, stunted cedars curling up from the river's edge on either side. Alex dove headlong into this tangled mass of thorns and brambles, not caring for the rips they tore in his own skin, head down, lungs afire, pushing endlessly for the vague safety of the described tunnel.

He paused, propping himself up against a wilting tree, his chest heaving desperately, his face red and tongue parched. He cursed to himself at the touch of the empty space where the pack once lay, but instantly forgot it's loss; it was somewhere back through the thicket, and he wasn't turning around. The ridge was a distant black-blue hump now, but still silhouetted against the faded stars by the angry red glare of the impromptu brushfire.

A seemingly random thought strayed across his exhausted mental pathways, growing in strength until it forced its way to the forefront of his mind, _what if my guide is a hoax. _True, the gruff man _had _deigned to save him, but he'd been holding out the whole trip, his wraithlike form only visible from time to time, pointing him ceaselessly in the right direction. But what if he was just another marauder on the path of murder? What if the "path to safety" was really a path to death? What if the tunnel turned out to be full of sulfurous fumes designed to kill?

Alex shook his head, forcing the troublesome worry away. If he'd wanted him dead, why bring him this far? Why not just let the horsemen kill him? And who was Alex to demand an assassin, the son of one of the shrewder Eastern Yeomen who'd been on the right side of the war?

Suddenly, out of the woods, a sound could be heard, a low thudding irregularity amongst the silence of the mountains. It drew steadily closer, padding as quietly as possible through the thick branches, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Closer… closer…

_Hoofbeats. _

Alex jumped, flying by the seat of his pants into the sparse jungle, running madly away from the terrifying sound. A quick shout called from within the brush, followed by a chorus of others, and the menacing scrape of swords readied for battle. Apparently, the distraction had only worked for so long…

Silver flashes could be made just visible on either side, the resplendent armor of men carefully threading their big destriers through the closely-packed forest, Alex driving ever onward, slapping trees and whip- like branches out of his face, the shouts pushing him through even the worst of the cuts.

Suddenly, he was free, bursting out of the wood in a mad rush of adrenaline and burning muscles, sprinting up the rock-strewn heights of a gentle hill within the valley, a hill that seemed to last forever…

But the horsemen were close-behind, the thuds approaching fast as the spurred their mounts onward, picking up speed but still slowed as they dodged boulders and weaved around cave-ins.

He stumbled over the top edge of the slope, his boot catching on a slight protrusion, sliding heavily down the gravel-studded descent downwards towards a bowl-shaped depression. His heart leapt, only a few yards more as he staggered to the bottom , more rolling than anything else, desperately letting gravity do its work, not caring for the bruises and busts he acquired as he slammed into rocks on the deadly crawl.

Twelve demonic figures crested the ridge behind him, the great wings on their war-helms stretching out like the horns of the Enemy Melkor Himself, their swords naked in the silvery cast of the moonlight, raking their slavering mounts with kicks as the galloped madly down the slope.

Alex stumbled to his feet, dashing into a small stand of trees rooted in a miniscule patch of marshy ground that had accumulated at the foot of the depression. He crashed through a ring of bushes and waterside plants into a small pool at the center of the stand, his eye instantly fixating on a rabbit-sized opening near the water's edge.

Without a thought, Alex dove for the entrance, wriggling his way past an ensnaring web of rushes' roots into the tight but still livable confines of a downward-sloping tunnel.

He slammed to the ground, quite ready to vomit, his lungs burning, his chest heaving, his hands clenching and unclenching sporadically; his entire body shaking with pure terror.

Outside could be heard the harsh bark of a commander's order, a few braying protests as a cavalryman yanked hard on the reigns. There were dozen crashing thuds, the heavy sounds of men in armor dismounting after a long ride. Footsteps rang around the magnifying walls of the stuffy chamber, each menacing step like the sound of a lance-point being driven into its victim's skull.

Alex shuddered, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to move fast.

"Sir," a voice called from outside, "have a look at this."

Alex froze. They'd found the entrance! He turned, jogging silently down the passage before squeezing himself sideways through a tight crevice at its end. He'd never liked dark spaces; even his father's library had set him a bit off, but down here was a living hell. Walls pressed in on every side, like the cupped hands of a giant intent on crushing him. Darkness suffocated everything, its oily tendrils wrenching the very air out of his lungs as his chest tightened with fear. He pushed himself onward, shutting his mouth against the silent invaders, desperately blocking out the all-intrusive fear, trying but failing to reserve his ragged gasps for regaining his breath after the exhausting run.

A harsh clanking could be heard farther back along the tunnel, muttered cursing punctuating the overall rolling rhythm of armor being beaten up by a stalwart rock or two.

Silence prevailed over the scene, the only noise the rough footsteps of the men-at-arms and the occasional whispered oath as someone once again tangled with a not-to-be-moved pebble. Alex padded along as silently as he could, trying desperately to slow his breathing, squeezing through the ever-narrowing paths of the tunnel ahead.

Suddenly, the passage widened, so that he was free to move his arms in any direction and stand up to his full height. He exhaled silently with relief, the trembling fear subsiding… if only for a moment.

But still, the all-pervading gloom suppressed everything, and he soon found himself treading through an unknown stretch of rubble, the walls receding far off to either side. He let out a low whimper, the fear creeping back into him. He hunched his shoulders on instinct, the absence of sound letting his mind create it, those same channels of fear now filling with the raucous calling of ravenous beasts, the inhuman screams of a dying Matilda, the crackling of a village set afire…

He soon brushed against a rock face to his right… a wall! His fingers instantly latching onto the rough surface with the desperation of a free-floating barnacle in search of a boat. What had the guide said? He thought, _always stick to the left. _

Behind him came the soft treading of footfalls drawing closer, his mind setting once again into a quiet determination. Up ahead, the tunnel narrowed: a good place to evade men in armor. _I'm fine, _he thought, _as long as I keep my hand on the wall. _And it was true: the rough surface of the cavern's edge _did _provide a strange sort of comfort, a guiding light through the eternal invisibility. He clenched his jaw firmly against the encroaching claustrophobia, resolving to press on and escape his pursuer's whatever it took as his palm brushed quietly against a soft, stick substance.

His brow furrowed. A _what? _It was strange in consistency, coating the entire new section of wall, reaching overhead in great white strands and ensnaring loops below. It was threaded, itchy, almost like… almost like…

_A Spider's Web… _

Suddenly, there was a brief chatter from above, a harsh clacking of bone on bone, answered instantly by a chittering reply from a horde of beasts, eight legs apiece scuttling across the hard ceiling; mandibled mouth's clacking in unison.

Alex froze. From down the passage, there rose a blood-curdling scream, a thousand furry arachnids launching themselves from the ceiling, from the walls, latching onto anything, pummeling through armor with quick, sickening crunches. Howls of lacerating pain lanced through the night as they crunched down on bone and flesh, ripping the faces off their victims, tearing out their eyes in their frantic fury.

From around the bend staggered a wailing shape, clutching his blood-splattered eyes, crashing into the left-hand wall as the three-foot wide children of Shelob swarmed over his prone form. Alex crouched to the ground, the spiders piling up on top of him, raking his sobbing body with their viscous hooked claws.

The pursuing party floundered around the bend, hacking at their attackers with bloody swords as they were overrun with spiders, tearing at their armor, ripping at the exposed parts of their flesh. Men-at arms went down horribly screaming, their brestplates punctured in a dozen different places, their intestines consumed instantly as the ravenous beasts burst their bellies like a King's Day sausage with too much filling.

Alex desperately whacked at his tormentors, batting them off as he bled in a hundred different places, his obscured vision swimming, his vulnerable stomach protected only as long his was prostrated on the ground, screaming unintelligibly in great, sobbing gasps.

A roaring soldier stormed into him, throwing off chomping arachnids with great, sweeping slices of his glistening sword. Alex threw himself to his feet, sprinting along the dim passageway, desperately fleeing the slaughter behind him as the soldier went down from a thousand cuts, one of the spiders finally crushing his exposed neck with a mighty snap of its mandibles.

Alex slammed to the ground, a hungry beast grabbing with terrible strength onto his exposed leg, pulling him ever nearer. He whipped around, beating the thing around the head, ripping the menace apart with his bare hands, scrabbling across the chamber, gasping for breath, his eyes wild, his body bleeding horribly.

He stumbled around a bend in the tunnel, panting desperately, nearly mad from the incessant keening of his invisible foes. He could do nothing but run on, watched all the while by a ledge full of hungry eyes that glared down from above, the sound of desperate sprinting feet hard behind him. And behind that, there came only the evil clacking of thousands of still-hungry monsters.

He burst into a great, black cavern, tripping unceremoniously onto the rough floor, frothing at the mouth as he attempted to drag himself onto his feet, but failing, his arm snagged on more of the sticky, white substance.

He screamed louder, filling the dank air with his terror as he was ensnared with webs, webs that wrapped around him, lifting him ever upwards into the dark, coiling about him like a python ready to strike, the silent feet of the industrious predators beating rapidly across his quivering flesh.

He struggled wildly, ripping his arms to and fro, tearing off webs wherever they appeared. But the more he fought, the more the traps tightened, finally closing over his eyes, his face, his head, binding his arms behind him and stuffing his mouth with material as he continued his futile wailing.

Finished with its work, an almost irritated-looking beast crept down from above, brandishing the keen edge of a menacing sting. Alex only thrashed harder, even more desperate for escape, sobbing as his death loomed ever closer. But his protests were quickly silenced by a short, efficient jab of the sting, strait to the heart.


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's note: **

**Sorry for the delay, it's been a hectic summer, though you probably don't want to know about that. Anyway, I've made a few changes in the beginning part of the story which I shall list here for those who'd read it before August 26****th****:**

**Daven is now the Prince of Gondor, and all that entails. He is Aragorn's son, a topic I won't explain until the next chapter. I originally had planned for "Prince of Dol Amroth" to be like "Prince of Wales" is today, but I was convinced this was both unnecessary and idiotic. (Yes, Aragorn's canon-sons still exist, I just made up a new character… so don't riot just yet…)**

**Also: please let your mind wander on the fact that he's 22, and Aragorn has only been married for 15 years… **

**Remember to Write that Review, **

**Neohtan the Wise (Slayer of dragons and all the jazz) **

* * *

**8**

Alethorn awoke in a stir, his head pounding ferociously, his limbs bound tight to the all-inclusive strands of webbing that trapped him in the spider's grip. Struggle was, as he'd learned, out of the question. Death was only moments away, and those last few minutes of life were quickly becoming a period of anxious fidgeting while he waited for his executioner to descend the sheer rock face he was bound to and have his entrails for supper.

He thrashed his head suddenly, a slight whimper escaping his lips as he tried and failed to ignore his current situation. Any attempts to escape the web would cause it to constrict still tighter, until finally parts began to go numb from the loss of circulation. Breathing was all the more difficult as the white ropes wrapped themselves around his chest and squeezed.

"Shhh…" a voice whispered, just a few feet off to the right.

"What?" Alex managed to gasp, his eyes perpetually widened as he forced himself to not look down at the hundreds-foot long descent into blackness that greeted a potential escapee. Up against the wall indeed.

"She'll hear you. I've been watching. They can feel the movements in the web. You want another shot of venom? Go right ahead, but don't drag me down with you."

Alex groaned, his mouth felt like it was filled his lead, his eyes as if they had been sucked dry. Every muscle in his body writhed in pain and screamed to be left alone.

"Like I said, shut up. You move, you die. They can't see well but they make up for it with the feelers."

"W-who are you?" Alex ventured, careful not to sneeze, the web had a strange, itchy quality to it.

The voice, apparently emanating from a bound lump of scarcely recognizable white coils, seemed to pause, "My name is Elhokar, son of Yevenarr, Knight of the Order of the Eternal Light. My job," Alex's fellow prey chuckled harshly, "was to bring you in."

Before Alex could reply, however, both prisoners froze at a harsh clang resounding from above, followed by a brief spurt of muffled cursing. Footsteps, very… _human _footsteps rang along a presumed passageway, before dissipating into nothingness with an indecipherable parting note.

Alex strained once more at the slight quivering in the web as someone… or _something _made their way downwards, finally reaching the area just above his face, a sharp metallic glint thrusting downwards towards his exposed flesh…

"Right, there you go. Vistaar has the big'un running ropes down there but gods only know how long that'll keep up so we've got to move fast…"

Alex blinked, his mind doing flip flops… _am I dead? _

"No, but near to it, would've been nothin' but a lump of meat if we'd stopped for that ale break I was asking for, good thing for you Vistaar wanted another check at the stacks."

Alex gasped as the webs began to peel away, every thread cut by the stranger's knife leaving him another to breath in, his chest filling with the stale but still welcome air of the cavern.

He furrowed his brow, the dark picture of his prison coming together all too slowly. He gasped, suddenly, as he recognized the face hovering above him.

"… Spike?"

The stranger grinned, "The very same. Feeling dizzy?" Spike asked, lifting Alex bodily out of his deadly cocoon onto his broad back.

Alex didn't need to answer; his head felt like a cave troll was using it for a footrest.

"Shit," the bandit muttered, "we gots to get you out of here fast, got you with the bloody stinger, she did…" he paused, shifting position on the cliff face so that Alex was thrown backwards, his stomach lurching as he was given a full view of the terrible drop below. He gulped, suppressing the urge to wretch. Stretching for what seemed like miles were thousands upon thousands of faint, white blobs, cocoons much like his own, suspended from stalactites, hanging from the walls, draped over formations as tall as a Fangorn Ent. His breath quickened, a sickening feeling descending over him as he was reminded in force of the precarious nature of his position. One slip of his "rescuer's" hand and he'd never see the sunlight again.

"Hello? Kid?" The gruff voice grumbled.

"Hunh?" Alex blinked, shocked back to reality after his near-fatal reminder of _gravity. _

"He alive?"

Alex nodded, his wide eyes still riveted on a spider chomping down into a nearby trap with gusto, each bite kicking up whimpers from its helpless meal who thrashed with ever-weakening blows until finally lying still. The moans stopped shortly after.

"Alright," Spike thrust out a pair of black gloves, the palm sides studded with iron bolts, "wear these, it'll keep you from getting stuck."

Alex nodded again; his jaw set as he gingerly slid the instruments on, trying to keep the thought of a slippery slope to certain doom at the back of his mind.

The few minutes it took to release Elhokar seemed an eternity. All the while his arms quaked, his vision swam and his limbs seemed to dance furiously, every movement a sick game of hit or miss as they stuttered back and forth, seemingly deaf to the commands he attempted to give them.

"You alright to climb?" The big man asked, "this one's near killed, and I can't 'old two of you so…"

Alex gave a weak grin in the affirmative, his fears reflected in the eyes of his rescuer, who hefted the now-limp Elhokar on his back.

It was hell, pure and simple. Hell. Every fiber of his body straining, Alex hauled himself up what seemed an eternity of sheer rock faces, hand over hand, sweating like a stuck pig despite the cold, his teeth gritted, his sight still trying to configure itself before giving up completely and letting him do the work with his hands. His "vision" as it could be called, seemed to throb, an ever-shrinking halo of clarity surrounded by a pulsing cloud of grey smudge, each beat sending electric pain racing through his skull. Yes, an eternity it was before he reached the top, a sightless purgatory punctuated only by the sharp grunts of Spike below and the menacing aura of pain that nearly knocked him from his tenuous grasp on the cliffside, every moment things getting foggier and foggier…

Finally, blessedly, he felt a hand grab his wrist, tugging his limp body up over the side of the wall onto hard stone, the distorted notes of a whispered conversation barely audible over a frightening but barely noticed rush of white noise.

"Godsdammit he's slipping too fast!" A voice cried, invisible hands gripping Alex and hefting him high, barbed tips of pain raking his skull once more.

"She's coming soon; I'm not sure whether the guard can hold her off for long…."

"Stay with me…. _Stay with me…" _

And all was lost to blackness.

* * *

He awoke in a blur, his head pounding, his tongue weighted like lead. He felt around for a moment, fingers groping through a wall of impenetrable dark, grasping something… something soft…

"It's a miracle you survived," a deep, raspy voice called, "Most are nothing but sacks of meat after taking that many stings," a sigh, short and to the point, "but then again, you aren't exactly _most _are you?"

"Wha-?" Alex mumbled, almost automatically sitting up, his eyesight still a meaningless blur.

"I told you to keep to the right." Another voice said, familiar somehow, made harsh with concern.

_No, _Alex thought, _fear. _

Suddenly, the picture before him cleared. He was half lying down, he gathered, on a cot of some kind, stuffed into a dark recess that smelled of "hospital" but felt more like a servant's closet. His sheets, he realized, were soaked in blood and pus.

"Who-?" He started, the alien muscles in his mouth conveying his words sloppily at best.

"Are we?" The familiar voice finished his sentence. With a start, Alex recognized the speaker. It was the man who'd saved him from the raid. And beside him, arms folded across his broad chest, sat a hooded figure, obscured not only by the absence of light, but it's _opposite. _Sitting in what a Peacekeeper might call true darkness. Light, that is, that wasn't light. A shadow that seemed to radiate from the cloak as if from a miniature sun.

The familiar man, or at least, the thing that Alex recognized as human, gave the shadow a long, searching look. The shadow nodded silently. The man, taking his que, fell to his knees and bowed low before the sodden cot.

"My Lord- Heart of the Shadow- King of Mordor- son of Our Eternal Lord Sauron son of the God Melkor- Breaker of Elven Kind. I pledge fealty to you, that I will serve until the last breath of myself, my loved ones, and my clients, so that my every endeavor shall be aimed toward the greater good of the Shadow and the Great Eye- that in accord to our Laws I will defend My Lord to the last, pledge Him above myself-above everything I hold dear- so that My Lord might do the same. I swear upon all Gods and the Holiest Center of the Shadow, for I am Nazgûl, I am the Sword of the Shadow."

Alex's jaw dropped. For a moment, he could only stare, his mind ground to a halt by the sudden impossibility of the declaration he'd witnessed. The thought "this has to be a dream" was miles away. The process of thinking it was focused to a point on the kneeling figure who'd just lifted his head from the floor.

"M-my Lord. Before you bid me rise, I must ask humbly for a boon." The shadow turned sharply, as if to say _damn you're impertinence! You have just taken you're oath! _But the man on the floor stood firm, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the dumbstruck Alex.

"A-anything…" Alex stammered, shocking himself that he possessed the power to speak.

"Deliver us My Lord. Make good your father's promise. Let Mordor Rise again."

* * *

The shadow strode through corridors of hewn rock, a silent tune hummed on long-dead lips. His sword floated conspicuously at his side, his slow, even gate making even the most stout-hearted quiver with fear.

_Ah, sweet Deliverance, _he thought, _Kihmul was right after all. The boy is a whelp, but even a whelp can become a great warrior in time. It is all in His hands now. _

He shrugged, or as much as the dead could shrug, his bony fingers clasping the hilt of his hallowed blade. A tremor of excitement, an emotion he thought long buried, swept through him. _It is not over after all. Our efforts have not been in vain. _

He paused at a short, barred doorway. The two Orcs positioned on either side of the entrance, a sad reminder of the once mighty Morrannon Guard, stood to attention with a hard-bitten slap of Halberds on plate armor.

"My Lord?" One of them acknowledged, his harsh mouth butchering Mordor's native tongue. Orc's always sounded so… _barbaric. _Another shrug, it was a wonder they were able to speak the ancient form of Elvish at all.

"How is our… _guest." _He asked, the words devoid of emotion.

"Hasn't said a word My Lord." The guard replied, the inevitable subtext clear: _can we eat him when you're finished? _

The Nazgûl sighed inwardly. Despite the popular image, humans were not the chosen prey of Orcs; in fact, from what he'd heard, most of the foul creatures believed they tasted like shit. But, then again, desperate times called for desperate measures. At least it was better than the cannibalism displayed by the Uruk-Hai; those horrendous freaks of nature the Dread Wizard had created.

"Let me see him," The Lord of the Nine spoke, the two creatures nodding in both assent and dismay. _Eight now, _he thought, the pained memory of his brother and Lord kicking up the embers of his fury. There could be no mercy, he though, not in an age of fire such as this.

"Come, Elhokar, son of Yevenarr, let me see your soul."

For the Heir of Mordor had come, and the Great Defilers would pay for their sins.


End file.
